Brown and Thin

Welcome to the chronicles of a bi-racial Canadian. This blog is dedicated to the celebration of my being thin and Brown. My family is White but I turned out Taupe. I’m not sure how this happened but what I am sure of is that the stories that have come out of this predicament have a tendency to provoke tremendous laughter. I invite you to join me in laughing at myself and all the many things in this world that are ridiculous (Mariah Carey, I’m talking to you). Sit back and enjoy; Brown and Thin!

Wednesday, August 28, 2013

With the ever increasing use of social media websites such as Faceplace, Instatwat, MyBook, and Twat-face, the understanding and appreciation of the English language has been on a continuous downward spiral since the commencement of the new millennium. Spelling has become atrocious bordering offensive, and punctuation is a mere fiction of the past. So it has come as no surprise that "twerk" has now been officially added to the dictionary. I suppose that even the dictionary, our reference for what is supposed to be grammatically correct English, should appropriately reflect the verbiage of our current derelict culture. Although I have many strives with several words and phrases coming directly from the common vernacular of this generation including "Bootylicious", "doohiki", and "mankini" which are all words that have been added to the lexicon of Miriam Webster, I have a particular issue with the recent addition of the aforementioned "twerk". More specifically, I am concerned about the way in which this word has gained cultural relevance. For those of you whom are not aware from where this word derives, please allow me to give you the backstory.

Megan Levy, a news reporter for the Sydney Morning Herald, says "Twerking (or twerkin) is a dance move that involves a person, usually a woman, shaking her hips in an up-and-down bouncing motion, causing the dancer to shake, wobble, and jiggle". Twerking came about in the early '90s in New Orleans in conjuction with the bounce music scene. This dance was further popularized by strippers in Atlanta and Houston during the past two decades. Glennisha Morgan of the Huffington Post and Norimitsu Orishi of the New York Post also draw striking comparisons between twerking and traditional African dances such as Mapouka from West Africa which has been banned from television on the Ivory Coast. So you can see that this idea of twerking is deeply embedded within the vast context of the African-American experience. This is important to point out because despite the prevalence of twerking in the Black community, a form of dance that is commonly recognized and understood, it wasn't until the 20-year-old anorexic Caucasian offspring of an illiterate country music star gave an abysmal rendition of this dance move at this year's Video Music Awards that now all of a sudden every news anchor in America has had the word "twerk" added to his or her teleprompter.

It all started this past Monday night when this ivory-skinned crackwhore took the stage at the VMA's much to the disappointment to those of us who are fans of music. Miss Cyrus emerged from a gigantic teddy bear symbolizing her childhood or perhaps a future dabbling into bestiality (only time will tell). As Miley leaned against the now opened mouth of the furry friend, her tongue was dangling out of her filthy mouth like a golden retriever with Down syndrome. Not to be outdone, her "hair" (if you can call it that) appeared to be the result of a love affair between a lesbian seagull and a chainsaw. Her outfit (or lack thereof) can only be described as a strapless abomination; a leotard of sorts so tight it looked like an incubator for a yeast infection complete with pink circles on the breasts (or in the case of Miley, in the place where breasts would have been), and a teddy bear on the stomach. Upon seeing this I immediately scheduled myself for a vaccination. She somehow managed to make her way down the stairs without her labia popping out, I assume by the grace of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. She pranced her way onto the stage surrounded by a slew of Black women with giant bear heads attached to their necks or as perhaps Miley would describe them, "a group of her closest friends that in no way were casted to depict a collection of pre-Civil War minstrel performers". Miley even approached one of these women with a very well endowed posterior and proceeded to bend her over and spank her like a slave in "Django". Putting these pleasant slave references aside I would like to draw attention to the twerking itself. The first instance when she attempted to shake what I understand legally to be her ass (although I would like further investigation to confirm that the sagging flapjacks drooping above her hamstrings actually constitute a derriere) she was alone, and thank Jesus, Mary and Joseph for that. She gingerly placed her hands on the floor in front of her and began maneuvering her hips back and forth. I suppose this was meant to intice, disturb or simply cause an epidemic of reactionary vomiting as a plight against childhood obesity. No quicker way to lose weight than to engage in bolemia induced by watching nauseating images such as that of a piece of white trash twerking in a unitard. Sadly the devastating events to follow became increasingly disturbing with each hip thrust. The second attempt of twerking occurred with company this time, Robin Thicke, 16 years her senior, was standing directly behind Miley's booty (or where a booty would be on a person who actually had one). This image is particularly disturbing because of the implicit suggestion of pedophilia. Here you have a man who has recently been accused of perpetuating the condoning of "no means yes" in his creepy smash single "Blurred Lines" pressing his pelvis against the backside of a retarded hillbilly. I'm not suggesting that both parties weren't complicit, I'm simply pointing out that two prominent pop stars (who at one point had the exact same haircut) should perhaps think twice before engaging in lascivious behavior at an awards show largely watched by an audience who has never seen a rotary phone, a typewriter, or Cher's original face. I failed to mention that at the point when Miley met Mr. Thicke dressed in an appropriately designed outfit (a black and white striped suit reminiscent of the color pattern of a prison inmate serving time for statutory rape), had stripped off her kiddy-porn derived costume to reveal an even more scantily clad (if that was possible) Miley Cyrus in a nude bra and pantie set. The belligerent buffoonery continued with Miley also donning a number one foam finger when she gingerly penetrated the air in front of her vagina with said finger. Obviously Miley Cyrus is taking a page from the "Kim Kardashian Guide to Tasteful Behavior", now out in paperback. The remainder of the performance included the appearance of a rapper no one had heard of and continued gyrating from an attention seeking product of Billy Ray Cyrus and a promiscuous but undeniably attractive goat. In keeping with the theme of Miley Cyrus's hit song which she performed at the VMA's entitled "We Can't Stop", I must say to Miley, perhaps you should! At least before you get chlamydia.

As much I condemn, ridicule, and make of fun the hideously distasteful behavior of a barely of-age pop star, I can't emphasize enough that she in no way is the problem facing the youth of America. It truly is up to the parents at least to establish what is deemed permissible and acceptable within the walls of their own home. Surely any child who isn't blind, deaf, and mute (in that order) will be exposed at some point to the many atrocities demonstrated by the so-called role models of our tweens and teenagers. But it can't be pointed out enough that at least the idea that unacceptable behavior being defined in the home at least provides some sense of delineation between what is appropriate and what is outright destructive behavior. I have much sympathy for parents these days but I must say if you throw a computer, an iPhone, or an iPad (or any combination of these) at your kid without restrictions, than YOU are the one who is responsible for the demise of today's generation. You can bitch all you want about the young people of today or the pitiful examples that are put out by the record producers, the media, and Ryan Seacrest. But the truth is, the people who are to blame for shameless activities of the children of this country are and always will be the parents. This gold star promotional mentality that is dumped on children is giving them a false sense of reality thinking that they are so special that the world will fall at their feet. The acceptance of trash, reached easily by technology, encourages the idea that bad behavior is perfectly acceptable and in fact rewarded with extended television series and a perfume line. So the next time you're at Best Buy looking at the latest technological device that will give your child unlimited access to pornography, videos of the homeless being assaulted, and step by step instructions on how to forge a passable driver's license to buy alcohol, perhaps you should consider that your four hundred ninety nine dollars and ninety nine cents plus warranty might be better spent on a bicycle they could ride to and from school, a pet they must take responsibility for, or even food certification so they can get a job and earn their own money. These examples would truly be beautiful investments not only in your child's future but for the prognosis of the nation. I almost included dictionary in that list of investments but with the addition of the word "twerk", I must discontinue my endorsement of the great book of Miriam Webster. Twerk on white trash. Twerk on!

Friday, February 15, 2013

Valentine's Day is a loathsome holiday filled with incredibly irritating people basking in the insincere attention they're receiving from some venereal disease ridden companion who is probably cheating on them the other three hundred and sixty four days of the year. I was going to spend this blog elaborating on this fact. Unfortunately my plans came to a screeching halt when an unforeseen event took place in my underpants. This predicament ended up being a much more pressing topic than the aforementioned one. Here's how it went down.

I have been under the weather the last few days, seemingly because of some ill-timed ordered pizza I shoved down my esophagus on Monday (or so I thought). For the last three days my diarrhea has spoken volumes while I myself have been silent (along with my blog). So it was only to be expected that my determination to maintain my regular work hours amidst my bowel's misfortune would ultimately result in a catastrophic situation. This inevitable circumstance saw fruition yesterday on Valentine's Day on my way to the train after work. While I was briskly walking across the street, it happened. I soiled myself. This wasn't on purpose. In fact, I can't even call it a mistake. The diarrhea emerged like a thief in the night; totally unexpected. One would naturally assume that I was trying to create some sort of flatulence but alas no. It was completely involuntary. So there I was, in the middle of the road with secretly soiled underpants. I stopped dead in my tracks (Thank Mary and Joseph that there were no cars on the road). I was completely astonished at what had just occurred in my Hanes. And then something extraordinary happened; even more extraordinary than the Valentine's surprise. A thought popped in my head almost as quickly as the diarrhea made its grand entrance. Without missing a beat, a voice came to me and said "This will be funny later." I recognized this to be the voice of Jesus. He has spoken to me many times before, like the time I almost considered switching cell phone providers (Jesus always knows when to chime in). I took a sigh a relief, of course being cautious not to become too relaxed lest I release additional diarrhea.

With this new found joy in my heart and unwelcome present in my pants I had a very important decision to make. I had the option of walking back to work five blocks to deal with the situation. The other option was to grin and bare a twenty minute train ride home in hopes that no respectable individual would sit next to me. I chose the latter assuming it would be a better punch line later. So the diarrhea and I boarded the train (I did not purchase an additional ticket for the diarrhea. Thank God she wasn't caught). I conspicuously took a seat at the very back of the train which was the sparsest in terms of population. My eyes widened with every stop as I gazed at boarding passengers all the while praying that no one would venture towards my diarrhea's direction. My prayers were answered (presumably by Jesus himself or perhaps Allah) as I remained solitary for the duration of the ride through all ten stops with only my settling diarrhea to comfort me. I arrived at my stop. I stood up (which is the most joyful experience for anyone who has recently diarrhea-ed themselves). I took a brisk walk of shame with my head hanging low toward my apartment building impatiently anticipating a dive into my shower. I practically sprinted past the front desk security and onto the elevator with additional prayers being answered as I rode up to the eighth floor again in solitary confinement. With no front desk security to look puzzled at me, I ran in full Ussain Bolt force down the long hallway to my unit. I burst through my front door. The next thing I knew, I was naked in the shower surrounded by the smell of a mountain breeze, the latest fragrance of the generic brand of men's body wash I purchased from Target (the "t" is silent). Frankly, I don't recall even taking my clothes off. I assume the experience was so horrifying that I blocked it from my memory. I don't even know what I did with my underwear. I probably put them in the garbage disposal.

After washing up and drying my body with my cheap hundred thread towel (also from Target), I launched at my computer perched on my bed so I could begin furiously typing a hilarious blog at the previous amusing antics I just experienced. Unfortunately the words did not materialize on the page because by the time my computer had started up, I had passed out on the bed and didn't wake up until thirteen hours later, just in time to go to work. Dehydration anyone?

What diarrhea has taught me over the years is that we are all human. We are all completely ridiculous and poop ourselves often, way into our adult years. That's just what it means to be alive. The other thing I learned is that diarrhea is very funny, even when you are carrying it around with you. This was a real revelation for me because I have been dealing with perpetual diarrhea for the last six years now and this was the first time that diarrhea seemed to force itself upon me and just happen. Every other diarrhea story I have written or can remember involves me furiously trying to fight off the urge to poop myself at an inconvenient time and ultimately ends in a happy ending where I win the fight and find a bathroom in the nick of time. The one common thread that has remained constant even though I have broken my string of success stories is that every diarrhea story I have involves public transportation. I am not sure what those two things have in common but I'm guessing Lucifer is involved (that or Jesus has a very good sense of humor). So for those of you who spent yesterday giving undeserved blowjobs or maxing out your stolen credit for someone whom you love yet cheats on you regularly and hasn't told you about their "cold sores" should bask in the fact that single people like me spent in learning life lessons from an unconditional companion who will always stay with me for the rest of my life; diarrhea. Something a box of chocolates only wishes it could be.

Sunday, July 1, 2012

I generally feel incredibly overwhelmed when surrounded by human beings that are small. Things in this category include not just babies but also midgets, dwarfs, and people from Korea. Babies specifically are of my largest concern for the fact that they do not communicate using words. I remember the first day when I met my niece who was only a few days old. It was explained to me that the little martian came to this Earth via my Sister's vagina. I personally do not see how this is possible but I give my family the benefit of the doubt while secretly believing that she arrived by either FedEx or a stork. I went to meet my Sister in her house and was greeted by a tiny, squishy ball of Caucasian joy which suspiciously resembled a bald Powerpuff girl. I embraced the vanilla cupcake in my hands and held the little baby in my lap. I remember staring into the little alien's eyes (which were barely open) and feeling completely bewildered that it came from my Sister who at the time was violently biting her nails because of her completely validated nervous energy caused by her overly reckless and jittery Brother attempting to a balance her newborn on his thighs for the first time. It dawned on me in that moment that this marshmallow would be a part of my life for as long as I would live on this Earth and of course an even larger part of my Sister's life. This, however, did not help ease my feelings of being overwhelmed by children; it only made matters worse that I would be, albeit minimally, responsible for another human being indefinitely. Since the greeting of my Sister's space alien, my perception of the little nuggets of the Earth has continued on a downward spiral; not because of my niece, it's really just out of hysterical fear which has been a constant motiviating and dominating force in my life. I generally avoid anything that is too short to ride the Tilt-A-Whirl (this includes Mexicans and my Mother). However, it has been unfortunate that in certain situations that evil babies are completely unavoidable. My plane trip coming from New York City back to Dallas is a perfect example.

I had been in my favorite place in the world, NYC, for a few days on business this past week. I had stayed out the entire evening prior to my flight for two reasons. First of all, it was Friday which is the perfect night of the week to slide several single dollar bills down the perpetual G-strings of America's finest strippers. Second of all, these particular adult establishments I speak of are open until 4 in the morning in New York. To give you a time frame, I, along with my fellow employees, were to meet at 3:45am in the hotel lobby. Therefore, the most logical way to spend my time efficiently in my favorite city would of course be to stretch my quality time with thong-wearing African Americans until 3:30am and cab it back to the hotel just in time to board the shuttle to the airport where I would no doubt receive a quality nap on the airplane. My premonition did not come to fruition. I boarded the plane completely drunk and high off of the sight of half naked Black people. I was more than ready to pass out on the plane. Then, there it was out of nowhere, little baby Hitler just staring me in the face. I gasped in horror and urinated slightly. Thank God I remembered to put on underwear prior to the flight. The baby was tiny with a gigantic head; it reminded me of the murderer from Scream. The little nugget didn't make a single sound, it instead continually sent laser beams straight towards my eyes without blinking for what felt like an eternity. It was clear that the baby was planning my murder. I darted for my seat, passing it at first, then finding it again and having a seat. I bucked up, twiddled my fingers with utter anxiety as the plane took off. Just as the "buckle your seat belt" sign turned off and I began to recline my chair back in preparation for my slumber, between the two seats in front of me emerged the offspring of Vladimir Putin. I screamed and peed, in that order. The nugget of death did just what his counterpart had done a few minutes prior. He just stared at me, and he wouldn't stop. "Go away!" I whispered, trying not to startle the baby provoking him to stab me with the knife in his Mother's wallet. "Pleeeaase go away!" I pleaded. He wouldn't stop. I was sweating profusely. The White babies had clearly plotted to attack me. As frightened as I was, I felt afraid to look away for fear that it would give the little baby a chance to strike. Then suddenly, as if unconciously, he burst into laughter! "Are you mocking me?" I questionned. This made him laugh harder. This little fucker wanted nothing more than to taunt me. I couldn't believe it! He was making a complete fool of me. Embarassed and annoyed, I excused myself and got up to go to the bathroom so I could clean myself after all of that peeing. On my way down the aisle, I notice something very startling and disturbing. I saw a third baby on the plane in another aisle, then a fourth, then a fifth. I was counting off the numerous babies on the flight. I was absolutely appalled. Where were they all coming from? Was American Airlines engaging in some sort of midget promotion wherein a discount is provided to people who perpetually shit themselves? In that case, I needed to call for a mail-in rebate.

I took a seat in the restroom (which by the way is the most comfortable seat on the entire airplane). I began to think about what I had just witnessed. I also began to question myself as to why I was so afraid of something so helpless. After a few minutes had passed, it dawned on me. I realized that babies are absolutely ridiculous. This is why they are so popular and amusing. I think part of the adoration (and for me the anger and frustration) for babies is the fact that they are unapologetically oblivious and without filter. Many of us adults would love to behave as instantaneously and boldly as babies do on a regular basis if even for just one moment. What I wouldn't give to have one day where in sporadic unannounced moments I could scream, cry, laugh at someone else's misfortune and shit myself all within the span of five minutes (I must admit that the last two on the list I have done as an adult). So perhaps all of this fear is actually repressed anger and a manifestation of my jealousy towards these privileged midgets. Not only do these babies get the green light to express themselves at any extreme at any moment but they also get the luxury of being transported around by another human being who most likely will flash her breasts at you; this sounds like Flava Flav's dream. Analytically, I understand the fascination with babies but what I find slightly more confusing is the adoration. However, once babies are separated and categorized by race, I am able to further understand why people find them adorable. White babies are cute because they are fluffy and pink. Black babies are cute because they are like little balls of chocolate love. Mexican babies are cute because it's the only time in their lives when they are not stealing property from others. However, I must admit that there is one type of baby that I find hideously disturbing. It shouldn't be difficult to guess that the species I am referring to is of the squinty-eyed variety.

Asian babies are scary for a variety of reasons. First of all, all of them look exactly like Kim Jong-il. Any time an entire race of baby resembles an evil North Korean dictator, it is only natural for one to want to run the other direction. Second of all, these little wontons can barely open their eyes which is of course common for newborns but comes across in a very creepy manner with the Asians for the fact that as onlookers we know that is how their faces will look for the rest of their adult lives. Ultimately it is very difficult to trust something when you can't tell what it's looking at. On a side note, I am particular concerned for the Japs and Chinks whom have vision problems with the majority of my sympathy resting on the fact that should an Asian attempt to squint, his or her eyes will more than likely implode on themselves and ultimately cause the near and farsighted Jackie Chans and Lisa Lings of the world to become permanently blind. Also, it is extemely important to recognize that it is very tumultuous to figure out when you are looking at an Asian baby or just a regular adult Asian because these little driving impaired communists are essentially full grown by five months of age. How is it possible to trust these shifty little dark-haired monsters with their stealthy vertical disadvantage and their timeless skin quality?

All of these perplexities and wonderment in reference to babies of all races were racing through my head rampantly as the plane continued its venture until ultimately made its descent. It was particularly remarkable that none of these babies made a single peep through the whole flight. It was even more remarkable the fact that one of these little nuggets of the Caucasian variety who couldn't have been an older than three months was donning the exact same outfit as his Mother. They both wore black and white stripes from torso to pelvis. This of course made me wonder if the seemingly White baby was actually Hispanic. I considered asking the baby what he "considered himself" then recanted in concern that he might stab me with his gang knife. Ultimately, I am still incredibly weary of babies and decidedly skeptical of their "good and pure" intentions. Hitler, Osama bin Laden, and Kim Jong-il were all once babies who no doubt were human geysers of bodily fluids as all young people are. What scares me is that it is impossible to know when looking at any small tyrant whether or not they will grow up to create genecide or cure cancer (or perhaps kill two birds with one stone and accomplish both). I will never rule out the idea of having children but I will certainly pause for thought to truly consider all of the ramifications that having a baby will have; especially on my thin figure. An announcement will not be needed once and if ever I decide to father an evil nugget as it will not be necessary. You will know once this has happened because this blog will be renamed: Brown and With Child (all the while praying that the little bi-racial nugget will not grow up to pee on a teenager on videotape).

Thursday, June 21, 2012

The year 1986 brought about some of the most significant contributions to the world. The two most relevant of these are of course Janet Jackson's "Control" album and the birth of a bi-racial Canadian known as Brown and Thin. Shortly after I was evacuated from my Mother's vagina it was discovered that I had a very serious yet incredibly treatable heart condition referred to as a coaractation of the aorta wherein the body is not able to provide sufficient bloody supply on account of a narrowing of the aortic valve (the largest artery in the human body). In order to correct this deformity, the Canadian doctors kidnapped me, broke my ribcage open and inserted a stent (an artificial tube) to allow the blood to flow properly to the rest of my talented body. My Mother, of course dreadfully concerned and overwhelmed, was relieved by the fact that this condition is seldomly detected at birth and when found this early is easily fixed. I spent a day or two in an incubator before reuniting with my Mother. In hindsight I probably needed the break; living inside of a White person isn't easy. Princess Toadstool (my Mother) and I grew fond of each other rather quickly and returned home shortly where I found out I had an older sister named Barbie. We lived happily ever after as the rainbow coalition of crazy. I assumed at the time that I would be through with hospitals and incubators. Unfortunately later in life I would proven wrong unbeknownst to me.

The year 2000 was a very tumultuous year filled with unpredictable and life changing world events. Geri Haliwell had left the Spice Girls only a few months prior which left me very fragile. This was no time for any human being to be bogged down with any person struggles (medical or otherwise). Sadly, around this tragic time was when I was more than overdue to visit BC Children's Hospital for a checkup on my cardiac disposition. I don't remember much of my hospital visits. I was twelve years old at the time and probably drunk as a skunk. Not to mention I was still grieving for the loss of Ginger Spice. However, there are a few poignant, sporadic moments that appear vividly in my mind. I remember running on a treadmill with cords attached to my entire body. I remember getting off the treadmill and being applauded by the physician saying I was in excellent health. When she tested my heart rate she said, "You people are so hot! Your body temperatures are slightly above the rest in you Blacks." Of course I was nothing short of horrified. But as a good Canadian, I conducted myself only in polite dismissal. I was not even a teenager after all. On another occasion, I was in a small room with a male cardiologist taking some tests yet again. Barbie (my Sister), probably 16 years old at the time, was in the waiting room with Mom. "Was that your friend?", asked the Caucasian doctor with blond hair. "No, she's my Sister," I responded plainly. All Dr. Ken-Doll had to say for himself was "Nice mix!". I was appalled.

The rest of the testing is a complete blur to me. All I know is that the team of doctors had confirmed that there was a problem with my aortic valve not distributing blood to my lower extremities and that they needed to operate. They determined that they needed to perform an angioplasty. This is where they put a patient to sleep and then insert a wire into his or her crotch area that navigates all the way up to the closed valve that is opened by a tiny collapsed balloon attached to the end of the wire which is inflated upon arrival. When I was informed of this I was of course absolutely thrilled only for the fact that I did not have to attend physical education class for an entire year in which I was required to romp around with smelly degenerates of the same gender as I.

The day of the procedure I remember I wasn't aloud to consume any solid foods which of course did wonders for my waist line. The countless proposed moratoriums on solid consumptions I have been issued over the years by doctors are the reason why I can now call myself Brown and Thin. I was surprisingly calm throughout the entire preparation. I went in the morning with Princess Toadstool. The doctors attached a cooling agent to my forearm which sat for about a half an hour before they injected me with an intravenous. It had been explained to me prior that I would be put to sleep for a few hours on an operating table. What had not been explained to me was that there was a mandatory and fiercely enforced removal of any and all undergarments. What I realized is that these doctors are very sneaky. It was only at the last moment when I had already removed all other forms of clothing and was only wearing the hideous backless blue hospital gown, my underwear, and perhaps what was left of my dignity when one of the nurses instructed me to drop trou. In fact, I'm pretty sure I already had the gas mask on and the anesthesiologist was already in the room. I was completely defenseless! I imagined a date with R.Kelly would begin in the same manner. The drug dealer (ie. anesthesiologist) instructed me to count down from one hundred. I remember making to ninety nine and a half before passing out completely. The next memory was waking up next to a fry container; you know those little plastic dishes used to serve french fries in. Only after a few minutes of having some wherewithal did I discover that this tray was present for the purpose of providing a receptacle for my vomit; I learned this of course only on presumption, thank God I was right! Princess Toadstool of course was there in the room with me. "Where is my underwear!" was my first question. I did eventually find them. They most likely had Ninja turtles on them (Donitello was my favorite. I just love purple.). I'm not sure how much longer I stayed in the hospital but I can't imagine it was long because I specifically remember not pooping which was a strategic decision on my end. It was one thing to pee into the magical plastic personal bin complete with handle but it was quite another to defecate into any type of receptacle that another individual had to collect (whether they got paid for it or not). I ended up being released early, probably on good behaviour hoping to never return again.

It would be another eight years before I would be royally screwed over by Jesus (I blame him for all of my medical problems). I was in the NYU hospital for a completely unrelated issue which was not Herpes, it was in fact a toe infection which turned deadly overnight. Interestingly enough I have recently been reading a book about health care and I have come to understand that in America much of the health costs are covered by private insurers (or not at all) which really inspires the competition aspect of this industry. I found this out the hard way when after being listed as "individually responsible" on the fact of me having no health insurance. Once it was discovered that I had a pre-existing medical condition, these skanks at the hospital ran me through every cardiac evaluation and test you could ever imagine. I had an MRI, an MRA, a Doppler reading, a cardiogram and was visited by, what seemed like, every cardiologist in the state while lying on my hospital bed. After several tests and evaluations they determined that I had "no aneurysms". My logical response was "Ummmmmmm I thought I was here for my foot.". When I received the bill at a later date which was to the tune of twenty thousand dollars, I understood why the endless amount of doctors were apparently so concerned about me. All I can say is thank God for Medicaid.

Three months ago, I was walking the streets of Dallas (a pastime that is considered both elitist and unncessessary in the state of Texas) when I was startled by a very sharp pain piercing through the left side of my chest. I considered this pain to be very fluke and alarming for the fact that I had not recently undergone any type of singular breast augmentation. After the second or third time this happened on my course of walking only a few minutes on the same block, I came to the conclusion that I would need to seek medical attention. When I got to work I called up an organization that specializes in matching patients with different cardiologists around the city. The receptionist in charge of booking explained to me that I would have to wait nearly two months to see a doctor; they were completely booked up. This by the way completely debunks the theory that a country with private health insurance gives patients a more immediate access to health care and services. I hung up the phone in complete disbelief. I considered going to emergency care the next day but as I started to feel better as the day went on, I thought it would be a waste of money considering the absurd costs of visiting an emergency room. Maybe I could just sleep off my cardiac impalement. I continually had ongoing chest pain for rhe remainder of the week causing me to pick up the phone again. I explained that I really needed to see someone. It was a fluke because there was only one opening the next week because of a last minute cancellation. I was booked!

I went to the hospital, signed in at the front desk, was greeted by a nurse within minutes who brought me into the doctor's office and instructed me to wait. A few minutes later in walked Pat Sajack's twin brother. He was very short (all people on television are) and attractive middle-aged man. "Young people never come see me. What are you doing here?" was his first statement. I thought to myself, "Oh great. I have a complete tool for a doctor." I explained to him my special issue and he immediately instructed me to remove my top and get on his table. I've had a few dates that have begun in the same manner. He attached several cords to my body that had what I will refer to as "suction nipples" on the end that stick to the patient's skin. He turned some machine on and watched some numbers click. I learned later that this was called a "cardiogram". After a few minutes he turned the machine off and began to remove the suction nipples. What I had forgotten from previous cardiograms I had received was the fact that with this test you get both a cardiac evaluation and a full wax of your entire torso for the price of one. I probably dimly remembered this fact from previous endeavours for the reason that during the first few times I experienced this I was a pre-teenager with less upper body hair than a Michael Jackson fantasy. Needless to say, I was taken a back by the abrupt nature of the removal of the sticky suction nipples while simultaneously feeling delighted by my newfound prepubescent trunk. My pectorals looked like the shiny hood of a brand new car by the time Dr. Sajack had finished removing the nipples of death. The doctor took my blood pressure and sent me on my way to another doctor to perform second test.

I found myself in a new room which reminded me of the set from "To Catch a Predator". There was something about the vibe that just seemed a little predictable. Instead of feeling like I was in a doctor's office, I felt rather I was on a movie set that was created to look like a doctor's office. Amidst my daydreaming about NBC late night programming, in walked another "doctor" (I use this term loosely). He was wearing a jogging suit. I need to make it very clear that it was NOT casual Friday, nor was he an African-American celebrity. Those would have been the only two perfectly legitimate excuses for this ridiculous choice of work attire. Not to mention, this guy looked like Johnny Bravo. He was all pumped up with perfectlly straight teeth that were blindingly white, had dimples in his cheeks, and his chin looked like a Black woman's ass. You could have easily placed a teacup atop his gelled hair. Dr. Johnny Bravo introduced himself to me and again asked to remove my top and get on the table face down. In that moment I realized what Paris Hilton must have felt like in prison. What really creeped me out is when Dr. JB, without prior announcement, turned all the lights off. The illuminating screen of his computer was the only light source in the office at that point. I couldn't remember in that moment whether I had put in my diaphragm that morning or not. Dr. Johnny Bravo then pulled out what appeared to be a white dildo. He then grabbed a tube and squirted a liquid gel all over the tip. I clenched my asscheeks together more tightly than Miley Cyrus's vagina when in close proximity to her father. I still had underwear on at this point so I assumed that any rape attempt would be unsuccessful. Dr. JB took the magic dildo wand and proceeded to shove into the side of my ribcage. "Hey asshole! Can you molest my torso a little bit more gently?" was my first thought. I decided to grin and bare it. If the Flava Flav contestants could put up with it, so could I. While raping me with one had, the doctor was incessantly clicking on his laptob with the other. I tried hard not to look, as images of my insides really gross me out (I found this out in a previous romantic relationship). At one point he turned on the volume so he could hear the heartbeat. I was amazed to discover that the beat of my heart sounds exactly like Pamela Anderson performing a blowjob. Obviously I take great pride and patriotism on account of Ms. Anderson being Canadian. At one point Dr. Johnny Bravo instructed me to turn on my side. He then removed a part of the bed I was laying on; it literally slid right out from beneath me in order for him to have the ability to rape my rib cage from underneath. I was thoroughly disgusted and impressed all at the same time. After being poked and prodded for what seemed like an eternity, I found myself glancing over at the doctor's desk. On it was another computer, his half eaten lunch from Subway and a large fishtank. Inside this tank was a single goldfish. I quickly became distracted by the little fish moving this way and that. He swam upside down and at one point almost straight into the glass. I wished so desperately in that moment to switch places with the oblivious orange fish. I would have given anything to escape the never ending probing from the magic dildo wand and would have gladly instead been trapped inside a glass container filled with plastic colored rocks and a tiny castle from Ikea. After endless torture, Doctor JB finally told me I was done and that I was allowed to put my top on and stand up. As I was buttoning up my blouse, I turned around and took a glance at the screen. It was a multiple split screen with about 8 separate images from different angles of my heart and aortic valve all in different contrasts. Some were black and white, others were multi-colored. I immediately wanted to vomit but controlled myself for the fact that I had no plans that evening that would have benefited from my losing two pounds. You must carefully select your vomits so that they benefit you at moments when others see you in public the most. Vomiting before an awards show or public appearance is perfectly appropriate. Vomiting before a night of watching "Scarlett Takes a Tumble" on YouTube while drunk and naked; not appropriate; you just wasted a perfectly good vomit.

I met with Doctor Sajack after my second test. He informed me that things "looked good" but that he wanted to administer one more test before he was convinced. He scheduled me for a CT Scan for the next week and let me on my merry way. I paid my fee of $30 which is very reasonable as far as the United States are concerned. However, that's $30 more than what I would have paid in Canada, not to mention that I wouldn't be paying a large semi-monthly payment to a health insurance company in Canada either. A few days later, a woman called me and we booked an appointment for me to come back. She explained to me that I was to not consume any liquids or food before coming for my 8:30am rendez-vous with a new team of doctors. I was thrilled of course, and immediately booked several outings for that same night on account of my knowing that I would be at optimum thin-ness that evening. The day arrived. After my morning starvation, I made my way to hospital which is called "Jack and Jill Medical Center for Cardiology". Was this a children's hospital? That's the gayest name since Clay Aiken's Daycare Camp. I walked inside, filled out some paperwork I barely paid attention to and took a seat. A few moments later, my name was called and I was asked to come have a seat across from a Black lady in a cubicle. The woman was very friendly, she was a recpetionist of sorts and looked exactly like Judge Maybelline. She asked me a series of questions. Here's what I remember.

Maybelline: What's your name?
Me: Brown and Thin.
Maybelline: How tall are you?
Me: 5'11'' (which is a total lie)
Maybelline: How much do you weigh?
Me: Sixty five.
Maybelline: I'm sorry....
Me: Sixty five!
Maybelline: You weigh sixty five pounds?
Me: No. I weigh sixty five kilograms.
Maybelline: Well how many pounds is that?
Me: (Bitch you're the one with the computer!!! - That was the thought in my head). I think it's about one hundred forty five pounds. (Which is not so much a lie but more a goal)
Maybelline: What is your race?
Me: What are my options?
Maybelline: Asian.
Me: No.
Maybelline: Hispanic.
Me: No.
Maybelline: Black.
Me: Possibly, but list the others and I'll get back to you.
Maybelline: Pacific Islander.
Me: No.
Maybelline: Caucasian.
Me: I refer you to my answer for Black.
Maybelline: Other.
Me: Can I check more than one box?
Maybelline: No, you can only pick one.
Me: Then I'll take "Other" for five hundred Alex.

I just find it so funny that we have to categorize everybody by their race, especially in a day and age when it is very difficult for many people to determine what to call themselves. It's one thing to ask me what my race is, it is quite another to ask me to check a box (and only one box at that). After the series of ridiculous questioning, I was sent up the elevator to meet some doctors. I signed additional paperwork while in another waiting area. I was quite disturbed when I came across a final sheet which was a release form for radioactive intravenus fluid. I am very familiar with the dye or "contrast" used in many of these procedures because I've had it several times, much to my disapproval, for MRIs and MRAs. What I didn't realize was that I was to receive the same intravenus contrast for a CT scan! I immediately turned white and got diarrhea. After I mustered up enough strength to pry myself from the toilet, I returned from the public restroom and signed the release form and sat down in the waiting room in complete fear. In walked a large White woman with a lab coat, holding a clipboard, and wearing more make-up and eyeliner during the day than a discounted prostitute in Las Vegas. "Did Paula Dean make a sudden career change?" was the first question I asked my imaginary friend in my head and under my breath. I just really couldn't comprehend the site of blue eyeshadow before Noon. I was dumbfounded and luckily distracted from the invasive abuse that was about to ensue. Dr. Paula Dean explained to me in the most delicate way what was going to happen to my frail and talented body. She said in her Southern drawl, "We gonna sit ya down on this here flat bed. We gonna stick ya with an intravenus (which she pronounced "interrrvenus"), then we gonna slide ya intuh this here tube see, and it's gone take pictures of yer insides right quick, then the machine gone tell you when ya gotta hold ya breath, and you gotta hold it for a real long time ya little whipper snapper!". I couldn't stop my jaw from dropping. I tried really hard, I did. I decided at that moment that the faster I got this done, the quicker the monstrosity of medical intervention would be over. I launched myself onto to the table and closed my eyes. In walked Dr. Paula Dean's hispanic sidekick. Apparently, Enrique Iglesias was the one who would be designated to actually shove the intravenus tube into my forearm. By the looks of him, I couldn't believe I would meet someone I would actually trust less than Paula Dean to do that to me. As Nurse Iglesias prepared the needle, Dr. Paula Dean was strategically trying to distract me with a myriad of questions about my personal life so that perhaps I wouldn't notice the degenerate Mexican getting ready to stab me. I was sweating profusely and shamelessly freaking out on the inside for the fact that my very wellbeing was left to the hands of a country bumpkin and an illegal alien who's last job was probably cleaning beds at the Sheraton . I took a deep breath as the Mexican stabbed me with the needle then injected the intravenus. Honestly, it never hurts as much as I think it will. I would rather feel that pain for two seconds than be gently molested by the ultrasound doctor with his magic rape wand. Enrique Iglesias then said, "Let's do some breathing exercises". I, frankly, was much more interested in him doing some English exercises. Nonetheless he instructed me to hold my breath for fifteen seconds. He applauded my efforts and congratulated my accomplishment of fulfilling the task. I, however, was quite annoyed by his lack of participation. When I hear someone say "let's do something", I assume that that means we will be doing the activity together. This little Mexican didn't even try to hold his breath! After that disastrous situation, Doctor Paula Dean gave me a pill which was referred to as nitroglycerin which supposedly helps the doctors see the pictures more clearly. She told me that it would probably give me a headache but it would be all worth it in the end. Way to see the glass half full lady! She put the pill under my tongue and to let it dissolve slowly throughout the procedure. Dumb and Dumber bid me adieu. They explained that they would be in the next room while monitoring the procedure, I'm assuming so that they can avoid getting cancer from the radiation.

The tube didn't scare me at first. I had dealt with a lot worse. With an MRI or MRA you are sent (sometimes head first) very deep into a long, dark space-tube that is just wide enough to fit the breadth of your shoulders. On certain occasions I had weights which were referred to by the doctors as "cameras" all over my chest, weighing down my torso. For forty five minutes I wouldn't be allowed to move. It was absolute torture. Having done this three times previously, I didn't think this would be so bad. In fact, I was told this would only take ten minutes at most. And to make things even better, the tube for a CT scan is not even a third of the length of my body, so I wouldn't be submerged into a clostrophobic nightmare like I had previously with an MRI. As I began moving on the conveyor belt toward the tube I chuckled when I noticed something on the end of the tube. It was two strategically placed Pac-Man looking heads. One of which was demonstrating a person holding his/her breath and the other showing someone breathing normally. I should emphasize that all the instructions for any MRI, MRA, CAT Scan, or CT Scan are given audibly by your doctor in plain English. This can only lead me to the conclusion that in terms of visual aids that the deaf and Mexicans need clear explanations too. Once half of my body was submerged into the horizontal tube I just lay there rather bored. I heard a bunch of loud noises; nothing any different from an MRI. But then all of a sudden the tube started spinning, really fast! To be clear, I was not spinning, it was just the tube. But at some moments it was moving so quickly, I began to wonder whether or not I was in fact the one spinning. Then out of nowhere, I heard Enrique Iglesias over the loud speaker announce, "We are going to inject you with the dye now.". I rolled my eyes in disapproval and waited impatiently. Out of nowhere I felt a shock go through my body as the foreign liquid forged its way inside my veins. For a split second, I literally felt my entire body jump off the conveyer belt. I was, for a split second, suspended in mid-air due to the complete and utter shock of the invasive contrast entering my body. As I landed back on planet Earth I tried to slow my breath and heartbeat to a normal rate. I knew previously that I would experience certain side effects from the intravenus, mainly a sudden increase in temperature. In fact, I did feel myself become hot immediately! This was to be expected, but what I hadn't anticipated was that this sudden heat flash would occur in two specific places; my head and my genitalia. When I tell you that my testicles were lit by the fires of Lucifier, this is no exaggeration. I felt like in that moment that my penis was going throgh menopause and its mid life crisis all at once. Suddenly, amidst the sudden temperature rise in my jewels, the nitroglycerin started kicking in causing what felt like the worst migraine in my life. Just to recap my experience in that moment: I felt dizzy from the increasingly spinning apparatus, overwhelmingly overheated from the intravenus, and in excruciating pain from the medication slowly dissolving in my mouth which by the way made me want to gag to make matters worse. And of course it was only at this moment of desperation was when Paula Dean piped in, "OK. Here we go, hold your breath for twenty seconds.". I took a deep breath, tried to concentrate on happy thoughts consisting of tulips and pregnant horses. The only thing that brought comfort in this precarious situation were the lovely hieroglyphics above me. But when I tell you, at the moment I took my last breath and started to hold, I saw that hieroglyph change from the breathing PAC-Man which was illuminated with yellow lights to the holding its breath PAC-Man which was illuminated with bright red lights. It took everything in me not to burst out laughing at this ridiculous sight of a disheveled, overhwhelmed PAC-Man desperately trying to hold its breath. I think it was funny to me in that moment because I knew exactly what he was going through. I was experiencing his exact pain at the same time. The only thing that prevented me from bursting out into a mixture of laughter and tears was the fact that if I stopped holding my breath I could possibly screw up the images and be forced to go through the procedure all over again at a later date. The thought of that experIience repeating itself was the impetus I needed for my commitment to my breath holding. Before I knew it, I was smoothly reversing out from the human sized metal condom along the conveyor belt.

I was finally free from the jaws of Paula Dean and Enrique Iglesias. The Mexican removed the intravenus and I was on my way. Dr. Paula Dean escorted me out. She handed me a copy of my release form and instructed me to help myself to some apple juice in the refrigerator. I was very excited on account of my incessant love for all things juice. I love apple juice, orange juice, and grapefruit juice the most (possibly in that order). I opened what appeared to be a bar fridge (I tried not to get too excited) to discover a thousand tiny plastic containers of apple juice. I grabbed one of the disappointingly sized plastic containers and peeled off the cover. I chugged the whole thing in one foul swoop. It was absolutely abhorred. It tasted like dish soap. I blame this slightly on the nitroglycerin I had consumed which had barely finished dissolving only a few minutes prior. But nonetheless, I was shamelessly disappointed.

I made my way back home on the train. As the train haulted from stop to stop, picking up and dropping off passengers, I reflected on what I had just experienced as the side effects from the drugs and contrast slowly wore off. It just tickled me that every doctor's visit felt like a rape exam, or perhaps just a rape itself. It's always so invasive to the point that I feel like I need to pay for yet another doctor just to deal with the trauma of from the previous doctor. It's a vicious circle of American health care with its fangs deep inside the poor and needy people who get stuck with the bill because they have either no or insufficient health care. This is a serious problem that plagues America just like its disregard for racial inequality or its love for crocks. The train arrived at my stop. As I stood up and exited the train I felt a breeze sifting through and up my derriere. I, in investigation, gently fondled the back of my leg to discover that there was a huge rip in the back of my pants the whole time! I had been so pre-occupied with being date raped by illegal aliens posing as doctors that I was completely unaware with the travesty occurring on the backside of my own body! No wonder those doctors took advantage of me. They probably took one look at that bi-racial Canadian and thought, "Well clearly he's just asking for it." I will be making every effort possible to sell my story for a future episode of Law & Order: Special Victim's Unit. If anyone is going to benefit from my doctor rape, it's going to be me.

Tuesday, May 29, 2012

As an avid rider of public transportation, I have become increasingly concerned about the behavior of its patrons. Although, like myself, there are respectable human beings who conduct themselves in a courteous and sanitary matter, I have found myself being surrounded, more often than not, by hooligans when I occasionally take the train to work in the morning. Among the many ethical violations that I object to, the most disparaging of them has involved the use of devices that play music. My issue is that my right to embark on a relatively peaceful journey to my place of work has been brutally violated. The murder weapon includes but is not limited to iPods, iPads, mobile devices (such as the Android), and basically anything that can have speakers attached to it. My ears have been raped repeatedly by the disparaging sounds of Young Jeezy. Quite frankly, I have had enough.

Over the past few days, I have tried excruciatingly to figure out why a person with a fully formed brain would decide to blast to the universe their taste in gratuitous rap music. I fully understand the pleasure of one's personal enjoyment of whatever choice or stripe of music he or she prefers. What I do not understand is the idea that I need to be an audience to it. I can promise to you that at no moment I have felt the urge to plug in speakers to my iPod, seconds after boarding the train, so that the other civilians on their way to work can be serenaded, at a volume that would make the ears of the partially deaf canine bleed, by Celine Dion. It begs into question the correlation between the demonstration of ignorance by those who blare music at a public volume and the type music being blasted. I cannot speak for anyone else who has been a victim of ear rape but I can speak firmly to my personal experience and confidently say that every time I have been awakened from my slumber on the train it has ALWAYS been of the hip hop variety. Is there something in Black culture that demands that not only they be slaves to vulgar lyrics but that they also must broadcast these vile words and ideas to everyone within earshot? I'm not sure if these purveyors of urban music are gangsters or Jehovah's witnesses.

To make matters worse, many of these humans (I use this term loosely) have made the miraculous discovery, prior to boarding the train, that they themselves are the next 50 Cent (which by the way is pronounced "Fitty Cent" because Black people don't have time for more than one "F". Most of them are far too busy impeding on the world's privacy with their ridiculous slander they call music to be concerned with matters of grammatical correctness ). Many of these disrespectful patrons treat this wild and inappropriate display of loud offensive noise as a kind of sing-a-long or as I call it, "Karaoke for Crackheads" (which oddly is something I would probably find great joy in watching if it was in the evening in an establishment that served ninety-nine cent chicken wings. And of course I would be drunker than Charlie Sheen at his parole officer's wedding). So not only do I become victim to Ludacris rapping about "niggers choking their bitches with stacks of hundred dollar bills whilst simultaneously swiping their Platinum American Express card on their ba-donk-a-donk" but I am forced to also listen to Cracky McGee singing back-up. I didn't know it was physically possible to sing rap music, which is comprised mostly of spoken word, off-key, but I have been proven wrong by several drug dealers whom ride the train with me each morning.

It would certainly be a fair comparison to look at the application of the boombox in the nineteen seventies and nineteen eighties to the current use of the latest mobile and electronic devices that come with speakers. The difference is that in the case of the boombox the only option was to play the music publicly. This still does not excuse the ignoramuses for pressing the play button and ultimately disturbing the piece with their Run DMC mix tape. Any persons twenty or thirty years ago who infringed upon other people's rights to silence are the reason why there are currently signs at every subway stop in New York City that say "No smoking. No littering. No loud music.". What is ultimately perplexing to me in today's day and age is the fact that unlike the boombox, with an iPod or any other contemporary contraption of sorts, you actually have to make a concerted effort to make your music heard by all of the world. And to those who bring speakers to attach to their iPods etc. have made even further attempt to be audibly arrogant. All of these gadgets come with free earphones for a reason! They are expected to be used for the purposes of keeping your personal music enjoyment personal. If you cannot tell, I am terribly offended by this aghast display of entitlement. I feel overwhelmingly violated by the sounds of urban vulgarity. I believe that every individual caught on public transportation playing rap music at any volume deemed "public" should be forced into solitary confinement wherein their ears are abused by the music from the latest album of Taylor Swift. And for those of you who continually insist upon disturbing me and other well behaved individuals on public transportation with hate-filled rhetoric backed by a beat disguising itself as music, just remember, your latest tool for social ineptitude is simply a modern day boombox which makes you nothing but a ghetto blaster.

Wednesday, May 23, 2012

When I was a little nugget, my Mother told me that one day cars would fly. As a young child I felt confused because I thought that flying cars had already been invented; they were called airplanes. "Scientists already have the technology, they just haven't built the roads in the sky yet" my Mother explained. This begs the question, "If there are roads, then how is it considering flying?". Sometimes I wish I were a dumb person with no imagination. Life would be much less confusing. After twenty-five years of being alive including a childhood filled with perplexity and an adult life filled with Smirnoff, vehicles are still very much on the ground. They have yet to levitate. Although this invention has not taken flight, there have been some very bizarre and disturbing inventions in the technological revolution that have been cause for great concern. I seriously believe that many of these new discoveries like Facebook, text messaging, and KeSha are symbols of a cultural and intellectual death in this world. Let me describe the latest technological advancement that is destroying minds across the universe.

This most recent pervayor of ineptitude comes in the form of a person. We all know her well. She is the bitch who lives inside of the iPhone, her name is Syrie. Clearly the inventors over at Apple had not seen the movie iRobot when first conceptualizing this space queen. Anyone who is familiar with Children of the Corn knows that aliens cannot be trusted, even those that are created in a warehouse in California. For those of you who do not know, Syrie is a woman who has been implanted into the latest incarnation of the iPhone. She literally knows everything. You can actually have a conversation with her. You can ask Syrie any question you can think of and she will provide you with the answer. 'What is the square root of 81?", "What was the latest bill passed by U.S. Congress?", "Which Kardashian donated the most money to the NAACP?". You may not know the answer to any of these questions but Syrie does. She can give you directions to places literally anywhere around the world one street and turn signal at a time. She has a bevvy of endless information in endless categories such as history, mathematics, and government. And I have a SERIOUS problem with all of this! First of all, I am not sure if this constitutes me as an ego-maniac, but I am of the belief that my cell phone should NOT know more than me. It is embarrassing to think that some cunt named Syrie who was sold to me at a discounted rate from Radio Shack has a Harvard degree and is constantly shoving it in my face! My theory is that the more my phone knows, the less I do! This experiment has been tested before. Just take a moment to think about your five closest friends. The top five people in your life that you talk to the most and are closest with. Can you list their phone numbers without looking it up on your phone? Of course you can't! And neither can I. What's the point of remembering people's phone number's anymore when your phone itself does it for you? And that's just a conversation about phone numbers! Now that my phone knows the names of every sitting president, the nutritional benefits of asparagus, and my social security number, why should I? Just get ready for a DUMBER America!

My larger concern is, what is Syrie going to do once she has sucked all of the information out of my brain? It may seem ridiculous to you that Syrie would have some sort of ulterior motive other than my personal convenience but the fact of the matter is that Syrie isn't just a library filled with information. She has a human personality. And she is a total cunt by the way. If you ask Syrie, "How old are you?", she will respond with "I don't see why that's important". At the very least, Syrie has taught me some very good one liners I can utilize should I ever become married. If my partner asks me, "Why didn't you take out the trash?", my response will simply be "I don't see why that's important." Or perhaps by the time I finally get married my response will be, "Why don't you ask Syrie to do it?". Although, it seems not plausible for Syrie to engage in manual labor. Bitches usually don't like lifting things. My favorite interaction with Syrie was described to me by a friend. She said to her phone, "Syrie, what time is it?" to which Syrie responded, "Gee it's awfully late, shouldn't you be in bed?". Great. Not only is Syrie a cunty know-it-all but she is judgemental as well. If I needed stones cast at me for my bad choices in life I would just live with my Mother. But instead you can pay the bargain price of a hundred dollars plus every month to be tormented and scrutinized by the electronic female version of Frankenstein.

From the previous "larger concern" I now move on to my biggest concern! What is this ho going to do next? It is popular belief that Syrie is controlled by those who made her. The idea is that Syrie has set responses to all of these questions that are interchangeable and random which would give the impression that Syrie is just a brilliant man-made creation that is beholden to less than human intelligence. And I am officially calling bullshit! Sure, at this point she seems harmless. So did cigarettes, Britney Spears, and crotchless panties at first glance. But as time goes on these things slowly came into their true evil. I imagine that Syrie will be no different. For all we know, Syrie could have within her cyber-brain a program that kicks in after so many years where she slowly begins to plant ideas in your mind. Maybe it's already started! In the evening while your iPhone is charging, Syrie could be telling you to engage in evil activiites like eating carbohydrates, joining a terrorist group, and listening to country music! This very well could be the destruction of America being taken over by a woman with electricity powered breasts. (It wouldn't be the first time. Remember Dolly Parton?)

When I was ten years old, my fifth grade teacher guided my class of thirty students to a newly renovated room in my elementary school. It was explained to us that we were inside what was called "the computer lab". This room had about fifteen computers that we could go on to practice and study a new found technology that none of us had heard of. There are very vivid images in my mind of me fiercely striking away at that keyboard with one finger. Although I wasn't aware at the time what technology would evolve into, I did feel a surge of power and control that I cannot explain. I was thrust into an electronic imagination by way of the internet (which at the time I am pretty sure was solar powered). I had no idea that some fifteen years later that technology would transform from an IBM computer the size of a walrus to a skinny bitch named Syrie who I have come to the conclusion is a member of Al Qaeda. Say goodbye to Osama Bin Laden and say hello to the new leader of mass destruction and poisonous hate filled murder. Her name is Syrie - A Metal Bitch with a Dream.

Wednesday, May 9, 2012

I saw Princess Toadstool (my mother) for the first time in two years a few months ago. I was on a business trip in Toronto and Princess Toadstool decided that it would be an ample opportunity for my Mother to re-connect with her Brown son. It's amazing to me that time apart truly allows yourself to view insanity with fresh eyes. When living with a crazy person (family or not) one tends to ignore all psychotic idiosyncrasies for the fact that the crazy individual begins to appear normal after a short amount of time. The long distance relationship that Princess Toadstool and I have maintained for the last few years has allowed me to truly gain some fresh perspective on my family situation. I cannot emphasize enough that I love my Mother more than anyone in the world. However, it has become clear that the woman who birthed me is a truly touched individual who is beginning to fall off the deep end of the ocean, mentally speaking. Let the madness begin.

The insanity began first in the planning of this trip. My end of the bargain had been secured for months because of the fact that my company was flying me along with my fellow employees to Toronto for the last weekend in January. Unfortunately, things for my Mother proved to be a little bit more complicated. I had been speaking with Princess Toadstool about this for quite some time, since last summer in fact. So when January rolled along and no tickets had been purchased for my Mother to travel to Toronto, I began to get slightly concerned. So I called her one evening and explained in detail a pretty amazing situation called "ORBITZ". I took my Mother step by step through the rigamorol of finding and booking a cheap flight to whatever destination at a particular given time. Apparantly, the advice that I gave birthed her the idea that I am now officially her travel agent. She requested of me that I simply find the cheapest ticket and purchase it online using her company credit card. In matters with my Mother, I choose to take the high ground at this point because there is no reason to argue with her because she will NOT listen. I booked the flight and sent her the e-mail confirmation. I was good to go. Or so I thought.

As the date grew closer and closer to our rendez-vous, things became increasingly more precarious. Originally, Princess Toadstool had told me that she would be staying with some random Black man she found through Facebook. Supposedly Facebook is not (as I understood it) a social networking sight to re-connect with people whom you already know but rather a website that facilitates the contacting of random individuals whom you know absolutely NOTHING about. But again, there is no arguing with my Mother and I figured if it saved me the hastle of booking a hotel in Toronto it would do me a favor. I should explain before I delve deeper into this story that both my Mother and my Grandmother refuse to call me...EVER! They do not believe in outgoing international calls. It must be against there religion. Therefore, I am forced in every situation and/or occasion (including my own birthday) to pick up the phone and make the effort to contact them. A few days before the trip I called Princess Toadstool to confirm the details of the flight. She indicated to me at that point that the Black Facebook boyfriend had fallen through and that it was imperative that I book a hotel for her immediately. Before punching myself in the face, I jumped on the computer and looked for hotels. Now, I must explain that Princess Toadstool is the woman who took me and her other two children (Barbie and Harry Potter) on numerous camping expeditions. This is the same woman who seldomly got her haircut and spent most of her days in a housecoat and flip flops. My Mother is not what I would refer to as high maintenance. So I figured a standard hotel would do just find for her needs. Well, clearly I was wrong. She told me that it was very important that she have a room with a balcony. What purpose was this to serve? Who in their right mind wants to be on a hotel balcony in Canada in the middle of winter? "I need to smoke dear." was her response. "Mom! You know you can't smoke in a hotel, even on the balcony!", was my comeback. But she wasn't having any of that. I simply had to follow instructions. And I did! I found her a room at a Super 8 in downtown Toronto for one week. She was elated! At first I didn't understand why anyone in their right mind would be excited about a Super 8 until I remembered that my Mother actually used to work at a Super 8 in Vancouver. Princess Toadstool loves familiarty! I have truly followed in her footsteps in that I have had a plethora of jobs in a very short amount of time. So there we were finally set until 3 days before the trip. I get an e-mail from my Mother. Here is the condensed version.

"Hi son. My brother finally got back to me. Looks like I can stay with him just outside of Toronto. Please cancel the hotel immediately."

For some reason, my Mother had convinced me earlier to pay the extra money to have the hotel at a refundable rate. Thank God I had done that otherwise we would have been screwed. Literally with minutes to spare I was able to get the full refund just before it would have expired. I breathed a sigh of relief and began preparing myself mentally for 3 full days with my Mother in Toronto. I was at least happy she was now staying with family. I called her the night before her flight (she left to Toronto a day earlier than I) to confirm everything. All was good. I woke up the next morning to prepare for my flight that day. As I was packing I received another e-mail from my Mother. Let me just express that the e-mail below is verbadum what she said to me. I literally copy and pasted it from my e-mail.

"A thought,might be an idea to stay in Toronto Friday and Saturday night,would save Lynn the hassle,if there is a spa in hotel or close I could book what I need and have Jeff drop me there Friday morning . I'm wanting full facial,haircut and color,manicure,pedicure...priority being facial and hair.When searching if you see something book it.So far trip has been free so honestly I'm not worried about the cost...let me know tonight when you phone,,miss you,Mom"

Are you kidding me? As if I don't have more important things to do than to all over again book yet ANOTHER hotel for my Mother but this time it needed to include not just the balcony but a bloody day spa????? This is the same woman who drinks Canadian beer on the porch in her oversized t-shirt, jeans and flip flops for the entire duration of our family reunion. I don't think she had ever had a facial before not to mention a pedicure or a professional haircut. For Christ sake's, she cut my hair with sewing scissors for 17 years. I seriously became concerned. This was clearly her mid-life crisis. Unfortunately, however, there was no time to deal with the inevitable diarrhea this was going to cause me. The only thing I could do was go online and book the bloody hotel. After SEVERAL calls and clickings of the mouse I was able to not only book her a 3 night stay at the fabulous Le Meridien hotel in downtown Toronto but I also facilitated upon arrival a full day at the spa including full body massage, facial, haircut and color, manicure, and pedicure. Someone clearly needs to pay me to do this shit. Once everything was booked and finished, I had several drinks and boarded the plane which was quickly followed by my passing out due to my inhebriation.

I arrived in Toronto with a positive attitude. Considering the previous events, I had no reason to be in a good mood. However, I knew that I was going to have to re-focus my energy in order to survive three days with Princess Toadstool. I was not able to greet her at the hotel immediately (which was a block away from the hotel I stayed at) on account of her being booked up all day at the spa. So I first set out on an adventure to experience my favorite Canadian passtime. Eating poutine! For those of you have not had the opportunity to experience this delectable treat here is the low-down. Poutine is comprised of fries, salty beef gravy, and cheese curds! Just looking at it gives you cellulite but it's worth it! It's the most enjoyable thing since receiving fellatio. You would have thought I was performing fellatio if you had seen me eat the poutine. After I patted my mouth with a paper napkin I knew that the first order of business was to head to the liqor store. This is a normal event for me when travelling on business. I always make it my first goal to get my hands on alcohol that I can store in the hotel room to keep me company. However, on this particular trip to Toronto I knew that I would be in DESPERATE need of Skyy on account of having to deal with my Mother. I made my way to the LCBO and picked up a 1.75L of vodka. I hope it would be enough to last me two nights....

As 8pm approached the clock and as I approached my fourth glass of vodka in my hotel room, I knew that this would probably be a good time to call Princess Toadstool. Surely she had to be out of the spa in the hotel by now. Of course it would be useless to call her from my cell phone because not only does she not believe in outgoing international calls, she only accepts international calls when she is on her own phone. When it comes to my Mother's cellular device, it's local calls ONLY, both outgoing and incoming. So I bit the bullet and picked up the phone in my hotel room. It goes without saying that the moment you even pick up the receiver you can be confident about the fact that you will be enjoying a phone bill no less than $50 when you check out. Princess Toadstool answered the phone with a cheerful voice. I immediately felt relieved. Here was our conversation.

Me: "Mom!"
Mom: "Hi!"
Me: "Did you enjoy the spa?"
Mom: "I did! My hair looks great! I had to switch out the massage for a manicure instead."
Me: "Why did you do that?"
Mom: "I figured if any one touches me right now I am going to fart."
Me: "Why do you figure that?"
Mom: "I have been incredibly gassy lately and I have had really bad diarrhea for quite some time. My hair really looks amazing."
Me: "Wonderful. Would you like to meet up later. I'm going to a show with some friends. You should come."
Mom: "I don't know dear. I would love to go but the diarrhea is really bad. It really depends on how I am feeling. I will let you know."
Me: "Sounds awesome. I will call you later."

First of all, I can tell you that genetics is an amazing thing. I have certainly inherited the diarrhea gene from my Mother. I fully understand the trials and tribulations that come with irritable bowel syndrome. However, with Princess Toadstool this is clearly a "boy who cried wolf" situation. She blames EVERYTHING on diarrhea. She has found her scape goat to evade any possible commitment. You can't get Princess Toadstool to agree to anything! She is too random in her emotions to make plans and diarrhea has become her latest excuse to get what she wants. It's truly unfair and ridiculous but what the Christ am I supposed to do about it. I hung up the phone and went out with my friends.

I arrived at the theatre around 8pm and I knew that I needed to call Princess Toadstool because the show was to start in an hour. My concern was that I knew I couldn't call her from an American phone number because she wouldn't answer. Somehow I had to get my hands on a Canadian cellular device to place the call. The doorman hooked me up. Here is the follow-up conversation with my Mother.

Me: "Mom!"
Mom: "Hi!"
Me: "Are you coming to the show? It's in an hour!"
Mom: "Oh. I don't know. I went to the store across the street and just came back a few minutes ago. The diarrhea was really bad. I didn't make it back to the room in time."
Me: "Are you ok?"
Mom: "I'm in the bathroom now cleaning up."
Me: "Well, do you want to wait tomorrow to get together then?"
Mom: "Well, I know you are only here for a few days so I want to come tonight. I think I can make it but I need to take a shower from the waist down first. I'll be on my way after that."
Me: "Sounds exhilerating. See you soon."

I am assuming that she was taking a shower only from the waist down so that her amazing new haircut would remain intact but I did not want to ask any follow up questions to confirm my assumption. I gave her the address to give the cab driver and hung up the phone. 9pm approached and there was still no sign of Princess Toadstool in the lobby. This was no surprise. You couldn't pay my Mother to be on time. The world could be ending and she would still insist on having her third cup of coffee before boarding the spaceship for refuge. I harassed the doorman yet again. I borrowed his cell phone and gave her a call. Here is how call number three went.

Me: "Mom! Where are you?"
Mom: "I'm here. But I don't know where I am."
Me: "Well if you don't know where you are how can you be so sure that you are here?"
Mom: "Well. I gave the taxi driver the address of the theater and he dropped me off and left. But all I see is a field."
Me: "What do you mean a field?"
Mom: "It's a field dear! And then there are very large poles with signs on them."
Me: "What do the signs say?"
Mom: "Well there's one that a sign fo IKEA, it's blue with yellow writing. Then there's another one that's orange. I think it's a sign for a furniture store or perhaps a warehouse. Then there's another..."
Me: "Wait! Let me hand over the phone to someone who may help."

At this point I handed the phone back to the random African doorman to sort the situation out. I hated to drop my problems onto an unsuspecting foreigner but after 3 minutes of my Mother on the phone I couldn't take it any more. After an eternal amount of time, he handed the phone back to me and explained that she was most likely next to the football field at the high school across the street. The very sweet man actually let me take his phone with him as I went in search of my long lost and confused Mother. This is the rest of our conversation as I searched for Princess Toadstool."

Me: "Mom! Are you still in the same place?"
Mom: "Well of course dear, I don't know where I am!"
Me: "Well stay there! I am coming to get you. You are still by those signs?"
Mom: "Yes dear. I can't believe that taxi driver was so inconsiderate!"
Me: "Mom! I think I see you in the distance! I'm waving!'
Mom: "Oh I see you too! Oh wait....that's not you!"
Me: "What do you mean that's not me. We're the only two people in the street. I'm wearing a black coat walking towards you."
Mom: "Oh well I don't know who you're looking at but it can't be me because I definitely don't see you. The person walking toward me is not my son!"
(At this point, I turned the phone off and starting running towards my Mother)
Me: MOM!!!!!!!! (I approached her and gave her a hug)
Mom: Oh my gosh! I can't believe it's you. You look White from a distance.

Two years had gone by since seeing my very own Mother and the first words out of her mouth were "You look White from a distance.". You can't choose your parents. You really can't. But I love her. And I love the fact that only she would say something so messed up and inappropriate. She was wearing what appeared to be black jazz pants tucked into a pair of black quarter inch boots and a brown faux-fur coat that I bought for her for Christmas in 2006. I will say her hair looked more amazing than I could have ever remembered. We went into the theater, late of course, I thanked the African and then took a seat with Princess Toadstool and enjoyed the show.

During intermission, I took a much needed trip to the bar. I ordered myself a carona. After spending any amount of time in the United States you must be very weary of ordering hard liqor in other countries because their alcohol to mixer ratio is slightly heavier towards the latter. However, this discrepency would do my Mother well on the fact that she is barely 5 feet tall and unlike her son does not tolerate her alcohol well. "Order me something good", was her instruction to me. Disaronno and coke would surely be the most appropriate option for Princess Toadstool. We both chugged our alcohol and bolted it back into the theater. We were already late for the first act and I was going to be damned if we would have to embarass ourselves once more.

After the show, we headed back to my hotel. I was staying at the Sheraton just a few blocks away from Le Meridien where I had booked my Mother a room. I figured she could come into the lobby for a moment and then I would her back to her hotel. It was after midnight at this point and the last thing I needed was for my directionally challenged Mother to fend for herself in the mean streets of downtown Toronto after hours on a weekend. So I decided it would be the loving thing to do to escort her back. It does tickle me that I would be guiding anybody in terms of travelling directions because I too (thanks to genetics) have no idea where I am going most of the time. But I suppose I am the lesser of the two evils in the directionally aware department. I am slightly less worse than Princess Toadstool. It was like the far-sighted leading the blind. We trotted our way down to King Street at a pace that I can only compare to that of a beached manatee after consumming the date-rape drug. My Mother walks slower than I could ever possibly even reinact. I have never seen anything like it. Not that I shouldn't have seen it coming. I mean, I know my Mother walks slow. Princess Toadstool has ALWAYS walked slow. But again, it had been two years and I had forgotten how bad it was. And with age it gets even worse! I tried not to panic. Surely, I couldn't let a glacial paced walk set me over the edge emotionally. I knew there would be a way to rectify this. I figured if I began walking ahead of my Mother that she would eventually take the hint and catch up to me. A half a block later, I look back and she is confidently one hundred paces behind me. That woman was absolutely hell bent at taking HER good time getting back to that hotel. She was the Mother that I remembered. Princess Toadstool, the woman that NOONE can rush! So I stood and waited a few minutes for to finally catch up and maintained her slauth-like tempo back to her hotel. I was amazed that I even stayed awake. We bid eachother adieu. I sprinted back to my hotel and launched myself into bed after making a very large dent into my bottle of Skyy.

I called Princess Toadstool the next day. She seemed quite elated about a trip to the mall. I decided to oblige her. We went to a place called "The Bay" which is essentially the Canadian equivalent of Macy's. I met her at Le Meridien. She was wearing the identical outfit she had sported the evening prior. I decided to turn a blind eye. To be clear, I knew that this was not a "late night situation" where she had no time to change on account of her being up all night but rather a deliberate decision to don the same clothes for days on end for the purpose of efficiency. In fact, I assumed that I would probably see her in the same black jazz pants for the entire week. My assumption would prove correct. We strolled our way to the mall with a speed synonymous to the career growth of Myley Cyrus. We mosied along through the glistening double doors and entired the department store. There were counters upon counters filled with fragrances, accessories, and jewelry. Most of these things disinterest me for the fact that most products appear to me to be clones of eachother. And even though I have no problem with swiping a credit card, I will say that like most men I have an expiration date in terms of how long I can spend inside of an establishment where strangers unsuspectingly spray cologne on you every five minutes. I took a deep breath in and reminded myself that I only had a select amount of time with my Mother and possibly wouldn't see her again in a very long time. It was important to be supportive and jovial. I wanted to approach the situation with absolute positivity. But as Tyra Banks says on America's Next Top Model, "Sometimes wanting it isn't enough."

Princess Toadstool made a B Line to the Chanel counter. I must explain that my Mother always does this thing where she just wanders off any time we are anywhere in public. She is always fully confident that surely I will find her, where I on the other hand totally freak out wondering where my dwarf-sized parent went to! All it takes is one moment to lose my focus and my own Mother disappears. I tried my darndest to keep tabs the whole time. I wandered off myself looking at some wallets which is incredibly ironic considering after paying their absurd prices I would have no money left to put in the wallet. Of course, the entire time I kept one eye glued to my Mother and her brown faux-fur coat. I saw her bounce from counter to counter looking at different products and just torturing every salesman possible with never ending converstation. I just stared in bewilderment. Again, it's not as though I wasn't aware before of my Mother's bizarre personality traits. But watching her combine her verbal diarrhea and her inconsiderate social skills was like watching an Asian person get behind the wheel of a semi-truck in rush hour. However, I must give Princess Toadstool credit because it's not as though she is relentlessly social with strangers for no reason. My Mother has a very clear goal in mind. And that goal is "FREE SAMPLES"! My Mother goes absolutely nuts over anything in the name of gratuity. Certainly, Princess Toadstool has known little of anything middle class or higher but I don't know that that is a legitimate excuse to try and squeeze out every last drop from any handout possible. However, I must say that she does so with charm. After an hour or so my Mother had two gigantic shopping bags FILLED with samples, anything you could think of. There were lotions, aftershaves, perfumes for both genders, shaving creams, chapstick, eyelash glue, and a cure for cancer. It was unbelieveable what my Mother had accumulated. One of the bags was for me of course. Her greedy desire for gratuitous gifts does not go without love. We made our way upstairs to the shoe department. I assumed that I had met my embarassment quota for the day. God has an interesting sense of humor.

As we arrived on the second floor I began congratulating myself. I had been such a good sport and had truly facilitated a wonderful time not just for my Mother but for the both of us to spend some quality time together after being apart for so long. Unfortunately, I had congratulated myself to soon. Because only after fifteen seconds fo daydreaming, I lost her. I could not find my Mother anywhere. I immediately panicked. I felt the diarrhea brewing. As a hot sweaty mess, I began running around the store in search of my Mother like R. Kelly in a nursery. I was searching high and low for the red-headed midget (My Mother's hair was actually brown at this point but red-headed has a much better ring). After several minutes of desparation, I finally set my eyes on the brown coat and newly renovated coif. There was no way I could be mistaken that I was clearly seeing my Mother from the back. I breathed a sigh of relief and ran up enthusiastically to my Mother and tapped her on the shoulder. "I found you!" I exclaimed. "Excuse me, who are you?:" was the response given by the total stranger I had just harassed. How embarassing! I accosted some random woman who had probably never seen a Black person in real life before. She most likely thought I was trying to steal either her purse or her virginity. Just as I was working out the details of how I could successfully avoid jail time for practically assaulting a helpless Canadian, I finally spotted my actual Mother from a distance. When I saw a sample bottle of Usher deodorant fall from her purse I knew this was undoubtedly my Mother. Princess Toadstool instructed me to pick out one item from the store and she would buy it for me. I felt like a kid at Christmas. So I picked out the most practical thing I could. I selected a blue Speedo. My Mother could do nothing but laugh in disapproval. I took one glance at her overflowing bag of free samples and it settled the score. Clearly neither of us could trump the other int he ridiculous department. We took the ginch to the counter, she paid for it and we made our way to the escalators. Just when I thought the worst was over.

I stepped onto the escalator and began descending slowly. After a few seconds I looked back and saw my Mother standing atop the escalator not moving, looking very unsettled. "Princess Toadstool, what are you doing?" I yelled as I continued my descent. "I'm afraid of these things dear." she yelled back as I continued going down. "What are you talking about? Just hold onto the rail, you'll be fine.". At this point, I witnessed something that I never thought I would be witness to. I always have known that my Mother was crazy. But what I failed to realize was that she was holding the most batshit crazy antics for later in my life. And this was an opportunity for Princess Toadstool to give me a glimpse into the schrizophenic mindset that she has adopted. As I continued my descent, I witnessed my Mother at the top of the escalator take a few steps back in preparation for her launch. She lunged for a moment, and paused for only second before taking three large giraffe-length strides towards the apparatus. She then long-jumped landing on two feet on the third step of the escalator (which of course was moving at the time) and grappled onto the railing with both hands like a koala bear. I felt the escalator physically shake as she landed. I can only describe my reaction as astonished. I couldn't believe what I had just witnessed. The only thing I could muster in my perplexed moment of bewilderment was "What the Hell was that?". "I'm scared of these things. I told you.", my Mother explained very matter of fact. I decided at that point that any further questioning or reasoning would be pointless. I just smiled, kept my mouth shut, pretended that I hadn't seen a thing and focused on the fact that this would be an amazing blog posthumously.

The remaining days with my Mother would prove to be just a re-iteration of the love, history, and insanity that the two of us share. It was difficult to look at Princess Toadstool for sixty seconds before thinking to myself "Did you really long jump onto a moving escalator in public yesterday?". But nonetheless this was the time for a Mother and her son to connect. And frankly, what better way to do so then with diuretic reflection and Olympic sports performed on escalators. It is impossible to feel the love that I do for my Mother for anyone else (besides Shakira). The fact that Princess Toadstool tolerated child birth not just for me but for my two other crazy siblings and raised the three of us is reason enough to tolerate a few high demands for accommodations and a few tardy appearances on account of irritable bowel syndrome. And as much as I make fun of my Mother, I recognize the fact that any comment made about her is a direct reflection on me. We all are simply a byproduct of our genetics and our environment. I have Princess Toadstool to thank for my being patient, optimistic, and most importantly thin. I love you Mom! And I will never forget that the delusional bi-racial apple doesn't fall far from the absent-minded free gift-loving tree.